Knives and Silk
by Figment of an Imagination
Summary: Belarus-centric ficlet about her love for Russia - Warning, angsty, drinking, weird rambling...


AN I love Belarus… poor thing

I wrote this in Programming class, too bored to care, listening to shitty rap playing behind me… fun times…

Warning… Badly done angst.

Marriage – her goal.

For centuries, she dreamt of being held by her love, dressed in a pure silk gown, he in formal dress, surrounded by friends and family, eyes filled with love and joy.

For years, she chased him, begging for marriage, for connection, for a return of love.

Decades spent, wasted, loving this giant nation, through his hardships, his madness, his sadness and happiness.

He drank, he tormented, he raped, tortured, destroyed. His drunken fits of rage, abusing the poor Baltics he had 'saved', his nights of pure innocence, naivety, his broken-hearted months when he learned that the Lithuanian had finally moved into with the Polish man (girl? Cross-dresser?). She sat through it all, offering herself to him, for support, love, and even for his anger.

Nothing, she had nothing of it.

Each time, he would turn to the woman – his dear little sister – and stare in horror and fear. It was never a look of sorrow, nor a look of thanks – no. That dark stare of the violent violet eyes was boring into her gazing stare in disgust.

She never meant to speak so coldly, never intending to threaten him – no never. The knife, he would never remember, was a gift she had intended to give to him – a lovely hunting knife – but he had rejected it, decades ago when she had only just discovered her love. The stare wasn't meant to be intimidating, she was simply entranced

Her sister was silent when she had approached her, confessing of her incestuous love to her. Ukraine had simply given and nervous smile. Obviously, she was too afraid to tell the young nation off.

Centuries of fear, disgust, running and chasing, knives and pleads of marriage after daily confessions of true love, the woman grew tired, upset.

The days were cold and dark, but the nights were far, far worse.

Belarus was lying on her tidy bed, a bottle of Russian vodka sitting neatly beside an empty glass beside her bed. Her blonde hair was mussed, dress rumpled, cold eyes shut tight, hoping the alcohol would kick in.

She had tried so many times; failing every day… maybe she should give up.

No, somewhere in her mind, this logic died, the love winning. The nations knew the moment she was facing her brother, her love would flutter, and mouth opening without her will, begging for his love and time.

Tonight, she had caught him kissing his favourite toy – the brunette with the soft green eyes and thing pale form.

In her jealousy, Natalia had chased the boy down, slicing his palms deep, so that he would never touch him again.

The blood had seeped into her gloves, and they were now tossed into the corner of her room, the red smeared on the carpet, a constant reminder of her blind jealous and violence.

Toris was not at fault, and she knew this... yet seeing him walk around her brother's house with a faint smile, uncaring of his constant tormentor lurking each corner, it drove her mad. She couldn't ever live such a life; caring for the man she loved, able to be at his side at all times - no, that wasn't for her, was it?

Damn the fate, and damn the stars that set this curse.

Belarus poured another drink, forcing herself to sit up, drinking it greedily, attempting to drown destiny itself.

It wasn't long before she was asleep; clinging to the present she had gotten so many decades ago.

Why had she drunken so much? Her head was pounding, and the light was burning. Natalia drew the dark blinds shut, closing the small home off to the sun and outside world.

A quiet day... a day spent trying to not think of him, a day to herself.

Belarus went to her winter clothes, trying to dig something comfy to wear, other than the blue dress she loved so much.

As she dug through the soft cotton and thick wool, her hand bushed against something soft, thin, silky. Belarus frowned, tugging out whatever it was, eyes widening as a long strip of pure white silk was presented.

It was the dress she had bought when she was but a young nation, hardly a woman, barely a girl. It had been a quiet winter, a welcomed rarity. The dress was displayed, with a sign that spoke of true love, and a lucky year for peace and happiness. Her naïve eyes were drawn to it, and eventually, the Belarusian found herself carrying home a dress, one that would never be worn.

Natalia stared in horror, sitting down on her bed, clutching the dress in her pale hands. What would Ivan think if he knew she had this waiting for him? He would probably think of it as another attempt to get him into marriage.

So she sat there, thinking, think of the rejection, hatred, incest, love, marriage, violence, vodka, Baltics and violet eyes.

Knife clutched in hand, he drive it in deep, deep into the thin silk, ripping it with a loud tear. The blonde began her work, tearing and ripping at the wedding dress, eyes watering and knuckles white.

"Goodbye brother… I love you..." she mumbled, shoving the cloth into a bag, and carrying it outside, only to empty it over the hill, watching the white silk tumble in the wind. As it fluttered away, Natalia tossed the knife as far as she could, watching the metallic shine disappear into the bush, jagged strips of white scattered everywhere.

It was the end… she would no longer chase him. No more would she be the object of his fear. She would make her life without him, make her nation strong, under the only thing they shared was a border and language.

She was no longer the nation who loved Russia, but Belarus, a strong woman nation of the Northern East.


End file.
